Sarah Graham let the alarm clock resting on a lace doily on her nightstand continue to ring after she sat up and began to stretch her arms into the dawning day.  The rat-a-tat-tat and rat-a-tat-tat of the clacking bell knocker against the regularly polished bell caps awoke Sarah Graham each and every morning for fifteen years, since she received the clock on her tenth birthday.

Eventually she lightly pressed the alarm clock off with her thin pinky finger and then promptly wound the timepiece for another day’s efforts.  She yawned, twice swung her legs over the side of her bed and wiggled her feet into a pair of fuzzy aubergine colored house shoes.  Her flannel, primrose colored nightgown cascaded to her ankles at the moment she stood to begin neatly making her twin-sized bed.  She hummed the ditty “Campton Races” while smoothing out all possible wrinkles in the handmade quilt, sewn by her Aunt Grace.

Once certain the bed linens were flattened with the pillows fluffed and neatly enclosed in pretty covers, Sarah placed a Raggedy Ann doll on one pillow and Raggedy Andy on the other.  She made certain the stuffed figurines were at respectable distances from one another and in sitting positions.  The dolls were, after all, perched on a bed and Sarah did not want to give wrong impressions, especially in the private cloister of her own room.

With her bed perfectly pulled together, Sarah dropped to her knees and said her morning prayers.  Finishing her visit with God, her bedside clock registered half past five.  She moved to her closet and went about the happy task of picking out her wardrobe for the day.  She alighted upon a peach polyester pantsuit with burgundy piping, a gift from her mother ten years earlier in 1979. 

Sarah selected a pair of loafers nearly the color of the pantsuit’s piping and bearing a shiny penny in the broad-along slit topping each shoe.  Having laid out her attire for the day, Sarah went into the kitchen of her snug house, built in the late 1950’s with two bedrooms separated by a bath, a modest sized living room flowing into a dining area dominated by a chandelier with candle-shaped light bulbs in frosted glass.  The whole home set on a firm cement slab that poured out to a carport, nestled on a tree-lined street at the southern end of balmy Ft. Lauderdale, several miles from the shore and in a tract-designed development with countless other white washed residences, mailboxes posted in front of all curb-sides. 

Sarah plugged in a griddle and spooned a healthy helping of Different Seasons Cooking Oil into the electric skillet.  Giving time for the frying grease to heat, Sarah flicked on an avocado green radio, a.m. only, and tuned into the WFLA early morning news broadcast with Jeff Bone and Weatherman Riddles.

Listening to the news and the day’s weather reports - “clear, sunny, warm . . . a perfect south Florida November morning in the making” - Sarah laid out a vinyl placemat decorated in school bus yellow with a boarder of lady bug appliqués, at the head of her slim kitchen table.  She added flatware on the appropriate sides of the dining-mat and placed a freshly laundered cloth - but not linen - napkin in a green color the shade of the radio at the upper edge of vinyl rectangle.

Place set, she placed three strips of Wilbur Fuches’ Farm Fresh Bacon into the skillet, frying the meat pieces until crackling crisp.  She then placed the bacon slices onto a napkin covered plate - paper, not cloth - to absorb as much excess grease as possible.

Bacon frying, Sarah cracked two Publix brand eggs into the skillet, quickly frying them gently over-easy.  Directly before the eggs were done, she popped two slices of white bread - also the Publix brand - into the toaster.  In little time she assembled the eggs, bacon and toasted bread on a blue and white plate with a nifty Currie and Ives patterned design.  She poured a big glass of orange juice - not freshly squeezed but the Publix brand, yet again, with added extra pulp.

“Yum-yum,” Sarah said, placing the plate on the prearranged mat, taking a seat at the table, the radio all the while broadcasting news reports and weather updates.  When she cleared her plate completely, Sarah washed the dish, the flatware, the juice glass and the griddle.  She placed the used cloth napkin in the laundry hamper, put the placemat away on top of a stack of matching table covers in a cupboard and retreated to the bathroom where she turned on the shower.

She scrubbed her skin and washed her hair with a lather, a rinse and a diligent repeat.  She dried with a clean terry cloth towel, dressed in the peach polyester pantsuit and applied a sparing bit of makeup - rouge, a dash of eye shadow on and over each lid, a muted shade of lipstick.

Picking up her well-filled handbag, Sarah left the house, strode over to the carport and in the minute cautiously eased her sky blue 1978 AMC Pacer out into the street.  She drove the dozen blocks to Everglade Middle School where Sarah taught eighth graders English - writing and reading.  She arrived at the low slung, red brick school at seven o’clock sharp, detouring to the teachers’ lounge for a single, solitary cup of coffee and a few minutes of idle chat with colleagues.

Sarah spent fifty minutes readying her room for the first of five classes she taught each day, beginning at 8:05.  In her initial session of the morning, Sarah Graham pleasantly presided over book reports orally presented by her students.  A similar course followed in the second period as well.

The third class time of the day found Sarah giving her clutch of eighth graders an examination. With that class completed, Sarah made her way to the school’s cafeteria, passing friendly greetings to youthful students and harried instructors along the way.  With every “hi Miss Graham” she nicely responded with a happy “hello” followed by the particular student’s name.  In the case of a “hello Sarah” from a fellow instructor, Sarah exchanged a brief pleasantry and asked how the greeter was doing that day.

Reaching the cafeteria, she stood in line with the students and took a lunch tray identical to the pupils’ own.  She joined four other teachers at a small table in the lunchroom, a group of instructors that actually enjoyed eating in the student’s dining domain.

With lunch eaten, Sarah Graham returned to her classroom and taught a couple more classes, diligently worked through her preparation period and, finally, guided students through the hall as they made their way to school busses headed to their homes.  Once the children departed for the day, Rob Walker, who taught seventh graders English in the class next to Sarah’s, popped into Sarah’s room as she tidied up after the day’s lessons.

“Hello Sarah,” he greeted, almost shyly.  Rob was Sarah’s age and asked her out on a supper date the day prior, an engagement scheduled for the following evening which was Friday.

“Well hello Rob Walker,” Sarah replied.  “How was your day?  Were the kids good?”

Rob shrugged.  “Okay . . . more or less.”

“Well isn’t that good,” Sarah replied with her usual bubbling enthusiasm.

“Oh, more or less,” Rob said, shrugging again.  He volunteered to Sarah that he looked forward to their supper date planned for the next night.

“Me too!” Sarah rejoined with obvious delight.  “It’s going to be so fun.  And I just love eating at Mario’s” she added, referring to an Italian restaurant on Federal Highway where Rob invited her to dine.

“Pick you up at six?” Rob asked, looking to confirm their previously scheduled rendezvous.

“Yes, yes,” Sarah said, definitely nodding her head quite like her neck was but a spring on which her skull balanced.  “It’s going to be so fun.”

The two teachers visited for a while longer while Sarah continued the task of putting everything in her classroom back in an assigned place.

“Well, Rob,” she eventually said, looking at her wristwatch.  “Time for me to go.  Thursday night and all.  Marketing night, you see.”  She tapped the timepiece’s crystal face with her index finger as she spoke. 

“Tomorrow, then,” Rob Walker remarked, briskly walking out of Sarah Graham’s classroom.  Sara herself departed the room a couple of minutes later after straightening up her desk and applying a discrete dash of lipstick.

On the way out of the building to the faculty parking lot and her sky blue AMC Pacer, Sarah stopped to chat with the school’s custodian, Alb Finnery, for a few minutes.  Much like with Rob Walker, she shortly tapped the watch crystal and pleasantly advised “well, Alb, time for me to go, marketing night, being Thursday and all.”

Sarah fired up the Pacer and drove the 3.8 miles to Publix.  When she arrived, she found the parking lot filled to overflowing with a jam of would-be marketers lugging over the asphalt in autos for which no stopping slot could be found.

During her first orbit around the congested parking lot, Sarah noted that one handicapped spot near the entrance to the store was unoccupied.  On her second roundabout in the lot, she noted the space remained available.  The third time around, Sarah quickly turned into the open and available handicapped-parking slot, reasoning to herself that there must be no disabled person presently seeking a space.  “Plus,” she thought to herself.  “I’ll only be in the market a few minutes, after all.”

Despite her rationalization, Sarah found herself feeling guilty as she slunk from her Pacer.  Consequently, she rounded up her purchases inside the market faster than her norm.  She hurried back to her car, quickly loaded in the brown bagged groceries and pulled out of he handicapped reserved spot as fast as possible.

Reaching her home, Sarah wasted no time in slipping into a flannel nightgown and her pair of fuzzy slippers.  Once comfortably dressed, she adjourned to the kitchen and prepared a dolphin friendly tuna casserole for herself, enjoying a glass of orange juice as she worked.  About an hour later, the dinner dish was prepared and Sarah went to the living room with her plate of tuna casserole, stewed beets and iceburg lettuce salad, setting the server on a well positioned TV tray standing in front of the sofa.

Sarah viewed a game show and then the network news broadcast while she ate, dutifully chewing each forkful 28 times. Like after eating her breakfast that morning, Sarah washed up the service ware following the evening meal and wrapped up the casserole remains for a later time, storing the tuna and noodle concoction in the refrigerator.

After supper Sarah watched television a while longer and then read a half dozen chapters of Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises.”  At half past eight, Sara washed her face, brushed her teeth and retired to bed for the night.

The following morning, Friday, Sarah’s alarm sounded off with a tiny rat-a-tat-tat at the appointed, long set time.  True to her long routine, she eventually lightly pressed the alarm off with her dainty pinky then wound up the clock tight and complete.

Sara yawned a couple of times, swung her legs over the bed’s side and shoved her feet into the fuzzy, aubergine slippers.  Rising up, she made up the twin-sized bed, humming “Campton Races” as she worked.  With the bed linens secured in place, Sarah plopped the Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls on separate pillows.  The Raggedy Ann doll flopped over on its side; Sarah neglected to straighten the stuffed figurine.

Sarah slumped down to her knees and rattled off her morning prayers.  By half past five, she went to her closet and selected her outfit for the day.  On Friday she chose a navy blue pantsuit and a red and yellow scarf to tie smartly around her throat.  Wardrobe laid out, Sarah went to the kitchen and made her breakfast.

She fried up three strips of Wilbur Fuches’ Farm Fresh Bacon, letting the meat sizzle until nearly crisp.  She placed the greasy strips on a plate, soon adding a couple of quickly fried eggs, over-easy but with haphazardly broken yolks.  She tossed a couple pieces of toast on the plate and then commenced to eat.  Not bothering with a napkin, Sarah wiped her oily lips with her fingertips and brushed a dusting of toaster breadcrumbs off her chin with the palm of her hand.

Sarah left half a slice of bacon uneaten, a part of a piece of toast and barely touched one of the two eggs she carelessly fried.  She put the meal service into the kitchen sink and rinsed it all with luke warm water.  She did not bother to clean the frying griddle.

Leaving the kitchen, Sarah went to the bathroom and swiftly showered and shampooed. She dressed in the selected outfit and applied makeup, a bit more than usual and using a luscious red tone of lipstick she received as a birthday gift sometime some years ago and never used before.

Shortly Sarah left her house, pounded her feet to the carport and, in a flash, bolted down the driveway in her sky blue 1978 AMC Pacer automobile.  She nearly clipped the morning paperboy on his sturdy bike with the rear bumper of her car.  She muttered under her breath and forced an apologetic looking wave at the preteen youth.

Sarah arrived at Everglade Middle School at quarter past seven and sat in the teachers’ lounge until just before eight o’clock, downing four cups of tepid coffee during the time.

The students in Sarah’s first class carried on with their oral book report presentations.  Her second period students, like the day before, did the same.  When her third class of the morning dismissed, Sarah headed out of her room even before all of her students filed out into the corridor.  On her course to the cafeteria for lunch, Sarah stiffly nodded her head at students and instructors that bid her “hello,” “good morning” or “hi.”        

Once at the cafeteria she cut to the head of the student filled line, which was always a teacher’s prerogative.  She joined her regular four luncheon companions after obtaining her food tray.

Reaching the table, Sarah wasted no time initiating and then leading her colleagues in a critical discussion of the school principal’s administrative abilities.  During the shared meal, Sarah also managed to jab at his sense of humor - or lack thereof - and the man’s fashion sense - or lack thereof.

After lunch, Sarah withdrew to her classroom and engaged a filmstrip for her students to view as she doodled on a notepad in the darkened space.

At the beginning of her planning period, Rob Walker poked his head into her classroom.  “Six o’clock still work okay?” he asked, referring to their planned dinner date that evening.

“Yes, yes.  Six o’clock.”

Once Rob left the room, Sarah pulled her purse out of a desk drawer and left the school through a back door before the final student dismissal.  Passing Alb Finnery, the custodian, on her way across the parking lot, she managed a quick, strident “hello” without breaking pace.

Reaching her home, Sarah plopped onto her sofa, a bag of potato chips in hand.  She munched on the greasy bits while watching a talk show on television.

Rob Walker appeared directly at the appointed time.  “Ready for some Marios’s?” he asked from the stoop.

Not inviting Rob in, Sarah joined him on the stoop.  “Yes, yes, I’m hungry.  Let’s go.”

At Mario’s after the couple ordered their meals, Sarah downed two gin and tonics before the food was served.

“Long day, Sarah?” Rob asked his date.

“God yes.”

They dined mostly in silence with Sarah dripping marinara sauce covered pasta on her blouse, twice.  She drank another g and t and one more on top of that.

After dessert Sarah tapped on the crystal of her watch.  “It’s late.  Better get home.”

Back on her porch stoop Sarah allowed Rob a brisk lip peck so long.  Once inside, Sarah threw on a flannel nightgown, leaving her street clothes in a rumbled heap on the bedroom floor.

Sarah watched television for a while.  She picked up her copy of “The Sun Also Rises,” but quickly set the Hemingway tome aside without reading a page.  She went to bed without cleaning her face or teeth.

On Saturday morning, Sarah’s alarm rang at the standard setting.  The alarm rang for longer than normal when she grabbed the timepiece and through it across the room, hitting a wall, chipping the paint.

She kicked her fuzzy slippers aside, keeping her feet bare.  She left the room without doing up her bed, leaving the Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Any dolls sprawled, legs apart and arms akimbo, on the floor.  She hummed a tune from the hard rock group “Putrid Pumpkins” on her way towards the kitchen.  She didn’t even think about reciting her morning prayers.

In the kitchen she looked at the package of Wilbur Fuches’Farm Fresh Bacon.  She tossed the half full package into the garbage bin, bacon being too much bother to fry. She passed over the eggs and grabbed a jar of Kosher dill pickles from the refrigerator.  She ate five spears for breakfast.

Leaving the kitchen, Sarah bypassed the bathroom and showering and cleaning up for the day.  She continued to wear the flannel pajamas she donned the night before.  By ten o’clock that morning, Sarah planted herself in front of the television, eating donuts, potato chips and drinking cola from a quart-sized bottle.

Saturdays normally were spent in house tending and keeping with Sarah Graham.  On that particular weekend day, Sarah crawled off the sofa at a quarter past one.  She went to the basement where she kept two bottle of wine, dust covered gifts from a decade earlier.

She returned to the sofa with the bottles, not bothering to wipe them clean.  She groaned when she reached her lounging point, realizing she lacked a corkscrew.  Indeed, there was no such device in the entire house.  She trooped to the kitchen, retrieved a butter knife, which she used to jab at and finally poke the cork deep into the bottle.

Regaining her post on the divan, she slugged back a mouthful of wine directly from the bottle and belched.  She finished off both bottles, and another bag of potato chips, in just over an hour.

Finally, At around for o’clock, Sarah quickly showered, dressed in a pair of denim pants and a sweatshirt and picked up her well-filled handbag from off the living floor where she dropped it the day prior.  She left the house, walked unsteadily over to the carport and in the minute carelessly careened out into the street in her sky blue 1978 AMC Pacer.  She drove the dozen blocks to the Mad Hatter Pub, a place Sarah never visited but routinely passed on trips to the Publix market for groceries.

She arrived at the low slung, red brick tavern at six o’clock on the spot, ordering a rum and cola when she took a stool at the bar.

Seated next to Sarah at the pub was a sixty-four year old man with a crop of hair in his ears that looked like thistles.

“Gimme another round.”  He ordered another shot of whiskey and back of draught beer from the bartender.  The man made a whistling sound as he spoke due to a missing front tooth.  “An’ get the little lady one of whatever she’s having.”  He looked over to Sarah and grinned, his mouth looking all the bit like a car garage, left door pulled open.

Sarah turned to the pub regular.  “Thank you.”

The man held out his hand in Sarah’s direction.  “Names Bud Roosh. Pleased to meet’ cha.”

“I’m Sarah Graham.”

“So what brings you out?” Bud asked Sarah.  She raised her glass and jiggled the half tumbler between her fingers.

“Ahh,” he said.  “I see  . . . you needed a drinkie.  The little lady needed a little drinkie.  Is that it?  Does the little lady need a little drinkie?”

“This little lady needs lots of little drinkies.  Lot’s of little drinkies.  Lot’s of ‘em.”

“Well, then, Sarah Graham, you be at the right spot.”

“So it seems.”

Dashing down the final slug of her first drink, she wasted not a moment in dispatching the round bought for her by Bud Roosh.  Drink drained, she said “Yum-yum” and then ordered fresh drinks for herself and her pub pal.

“So, Bud Roosh  . . .What do you do?”

“Do?”

“Do.”

“For What?”

“Work.”

“Work?”

“Work.”

Bud laughed.  He slapped the bar top with both hands flat.  “Lady . . . you’re looking at what I do!”

The rounds piled up, Sarah staying at the tavern until quarter past midnight.  She left the pub, staggered to her car, dropping the keys to the pavement three times before succeeding in unlocking the door.

She fired up the motor, darted into the roadway and sped for two blocks on the wrong side of the street before somewhat righting her course to the correct portion of pavement.  As she barreled the dozen blocks homeward, a stray pooch with ribs bulging under his patchy fur, ambled about on the edge of the roadway.  The mutt wandered well away from the approach of sound motorists.

A block before reaching the point where the dog ranged, Sarah began an arching pattern of swerves over the street from left to right and back again.  In the end, she pummeled the pooch with her speeding auto, leaving the dog a crumpled heap in a gravel patch at the road’s edge.  Realizing what she’d done, Sarah laughed.

Sarah Graham threw her alarm clock and the lace doily on which it sat into the garbage before passing out in her unkempt bed when she returned home from the Mad Hatter Pub.  She finally came around about noon on Sunday, three hours after the time she regularly attended services at First Presbyterian Church of Ft. Lauderdale.

Still dressed in the clothes she wore to the tavern the night before, Sarah stripped and put on a dirty flannel nightgown she picked off her floor.  Leaving her bedroom, she stepped on Raggedy Ann’s head walking towards the door.

Her head throbbing and her stomach cramped from the night prior, Sarah absently plugged in the griddle in her kitchen.  Spooning Different Seasons Cooking Oil into the electric skillet, Sarah slopped a goodly amount of grease over her counter top and onto the kitchen floor.

After plugging in the fryer, Sarah’s pulsing head and sour gut drove her into the living room, intent to lay back on the sofa for a spell to try to relieve the ill effects.  A few minutes after taking to the sofa, Sarah was asleep.  Not long later, the spattered grease about the kitchen caught fire.  By noon, Sarah Graham and her house were engulfed in raging flames.